in our cancer of passion; marvel

[garbage]

Alive? He might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And eyes squeezed shut ‘neath rusty mane;

He is proof that the broken cannot be loved, not for long.
He’s found other broken souls and together they tried to fit, like regluing the pieces of a shattered teacup – never quite fitting, never quite holding water, some vital piece missing and gone.
He loves, of course - loves desperately and wildly, because there are no such rules for the broken. They love, but cannot be loved.
Not for long.

The eyes pierce him like burn and he cringes again, a beaten broken thing, a thing that is supposed to be dead, not on this wretched beach in front of this wretched girl. She echoes back the question - no - and it hangs in the air like an echo, and all he hears is no, no, no.

Am I really nothing to you?

He’d laugh, except he’s not much of a laughing man.
“No,” (that word, again), “you’re too much. I can’t—“
Can’t what? Can’t look upon you, can’t see the way you look like him.
(The way she has Craft’s face, just a bit.)
He can’t know these things, the knowledge will drive him mad (we’d say kill him but he’s already dead, what worse fates can we draw up?). He can’t.
No.

But he is broken. He is broken and she is before him, tragic, asking why do I exist if no one wanted me. It’s not a question he can answer. But the way her voice cracks and aches strikes him, he feels it like an arrow in his ghostly heart.
“It’s not that,” he says, “you just…you look like someone I loved.”

As if ruining that boy was anything like love.

Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

sorry I made you wait a month for this weird ass post D: